


The Unexpected Letter

by Kitty_18



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:56:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_18/pseuds/Kitty_18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Watson is delighted when a mysterious letter arrives, re-energising Sherlock Holmes and sending the pair into the seclusion of Wales. But it is the letter's author that surprises Watson the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unexpected Letter

To my great surprise, Sherlock Holmes was already awake, dressed, and devouring his toast as I got down to breakfast one dull September morning. He had spend the last few days lying on our sofa, newspapers scattered about the floor, alternately smoking his pipe and playing nothing resembling a tune on his violin.

Today, however, my friend had a letter in his hand and a gleam in his eye. It was everything I could have hoped for.

"You have a case then?" I enquired, as I helped myself to some of Mrs Hudson's excellent poached eggs.

"I think you will find this a very interesting one," said Holmes. He passed the letter over to me, "What do you make of that?"

_'Mr Holmes,'_ the letter ran.

_'I must apologise for the lack of detail in this letter, but I fear I am being watched. There is a matter of great urgency I must consult you about regarding the death of my Uncle, the well on my property, and an unusual telegram I received last week. I have found myself unable to visit you, so I must beg to meet with me at the above address. All travel expenses will, of course, be reimbursed._  


_'Yours,  
'Henry Jones'_

The address at the top of the page was Welsh, that I could be most certain of. I admit, however, that I could not identify the location past that.

"A hamlet in one of the west-most parts of Wales," said Holmes, cutting into my thoughts with habitual ease. "You know my methods, Watson. What can you tell me about our client?"

"Other than that the writer appears to be extremely agitated, I can tell you nothing," I confessed.

"My dear Watson," said Holmes. "Look at the writing! Do you not find it unusual for the ink to be smudged in three places in such a short note?"

I murmured my agreement that it was indeed unusual.

"And, dear me, see how the writing meanders all over the page instead of proceeding in the standard straight lines? It is clear that the author placed some importance in the note, so we can only deduce his carelessness stems from an extreme lack of time. Now feel the paper, Watson."

I ran the paper between finger and thumb. "It is of good quality," said I, doubtfully.

"And, given that our client has already offered reimburse what will probably be substantial expenses, we can tell he is a man of some means," said Holmes. "And note the envelope."

I took the envelope that Holmes held out for me, and then almost dropped it in shock. "This letter was posted from Baker Street!"

"Indeed it was," said Holmes, a quick smile flashing across his face.

"Perhaps the man, in coming to consult you, found himself somehow unable to and scribbled out this note instead," said I.

"Quite possible," said Holmes, frowning. "There are very few other things I can deduce. Only that he's an English gentleman, a heavy smoker, that he has dark hair that was cut recently, is somewhat practiced at disguising his own hand, and that he's using a false name."

"Why, Holmes," I exclaimed, "you amaze me!"

"A simple parlour trick," said Holmes, with a wave of his hand. I could however, knowing his as well as I do, see from that slight blush of his cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes that he was pleased with my flattery.

"When do you plan to set off?" I was eager to begin, the letter having intrigued me.

"There is a coach that travels to and from the hamlet once a week," said Holmes. "The next one leaves tomorrow morning, and I plan to catch it. The one o'clock train from Paddington should be sufficient for our purposes. I trust you will have no problems throwing together a few clothes for the both or us? There are a few more specialised items I would like to pack."

I was, not for the first time, thankful I was a light packer, and we made the train in comfortable time. We had a carriage to ourselves for a good part of the journey, and it was spent in a comfortable silence. Holmes spent his time either leafing through the papers he'd acquired at Paddington or leaning against my shoulder with his eyes closed.

The coach trip was long and bumpy. My rest on the sleeper train had been poor, and I was glad to arrive at the Hamlet. I had hoped that our mysterious client might have shared the coach with us, but Holmes and I were alone. However, when I remarked on this to my friend, he simply held up on finger and flashed me a smile.

It was raining heavily when we arrived, and it was with great disappointment that I heard my friend remark, rather cheerfully, that we still had some way to walk. We were both soaked to the skin when we arrived at a small, overgrown cottage some way away from the hamlet.

"This should be it," said Holmes, rubbing his hands together.

"Are you certain?" I enquired. "I was expecting something larger."

"Never expect, Watson, never expect." To my astonishment, Holmes plucked a small key from his pocket and unlocked the small door.

The cottage was dark inside, save for the light flung from a good fire that was burning in the grate of the cozy living room. Holmes was quick to remove my coat and steer me in the direction of a fireside armchair so I could warm and dry myself.

"Holmes," said I, holding my freezing hands towards the flames, "when do you expect our client to arrive?"

"I expect us to be quite alone for the week," said Holmes, dropping his own coat on the back of the chair opposite mine. He didn't sit as I had, but instead stood watching me with one hand in his pocket.

"But the letter!" I protested.

"The letter sent from Baker Street by a dark-haired English gentleman with a propensity for disguising his own handwriting?" said Holmes, arching an eyebrow. "I wonder who that could have been?"

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, half rising from my chair. "If you had wanted a holiday you could have just said."

"I though it was quite obvious from the first." Holmes placed one hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down into my chair and, in one fluid movement, slid his arm around my neck and himself into my lap. It was easy to forgive him when I felt his long fingers brush through my hair and his lips on mine.

On breaking apart, Holmes rested himself against my chest and placed his lips close to my ear. "It is predicted that this part of the world will be particularly damp all week," he said, so softly I could barely catch the words. "But I believe we can find some way to occupy ourselves."

I obliged him by wrapping my arms around his waist and letting myself agree.


End file.
